


The Knife I Turn Inside Myself

by bijoublanchefleur



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Pseudo-Incest, Psychopaths In Love, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bijoublanchefleur/pseuds/bijoublanchefleur
Summary: For his whole life, Albert Wesker has played a game of competitive cruelty with his oldest rival, his sister. He believes it's blood that binds them. Alex is burdened with the truth- it is not blood they share, but something greater.(A collection of short vignettes about the Weskers)
Relationships: Albert Wesker/Alex Wesker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. Penance

**Author's Note:**

> _“We must suffer. Our five senses are dulled by inordinate pleasure. Penance makes them keen, gives them back their natural vitality, and more.” - Thomas Merton_

She’s always relished the feeling of telling a secret.

Alex’s sentences are hurried,  _ desperate _ . She talks of murder, mutation, dismemberment, disease- harsh whispers that match the rhythm of her hips, and there’s nothing Albert wants more than to hear her confess, to know what new violence she’s enacted, what new carnage has brought her to his bedroom.

His thumbs press lightly at the base of her throat and he can feel the tender movement of her pulse, _ see _ her heart beating under pale skin. He thinks of all the killing she’s done and how effortless it would be for him to kill  _ her _ . How rewarding to be the man who takes her life, how meaningful to be equal parts lover, brother-  _ executioner _ . It is when she’s close that he takes a fistful of blonde hair, holds her by the jaw and there is nowhere for her to look but his eyes- two sharp irises, cold and comfortless, shattering into a million shades of blue. He kisses her- not with his lips but his fists, his teeth, the steel toe of his boot. Until she is absolved, her body fractured and languid, his handprints a punished shade of purple on her wrists, her hips.

Between them, in the darkness, so much blood has been shed- slick and warm and covering their flesh, their nails, their tongues. Staining white thighs, white bedsheets, white labcoats. An offering to some higher power, penance for cheating the gods, the price of such horrific and monstrous discovery.

It always ends the same. The wordless fixing of her hair, the buttoning of her shirt. She wouldn’t sleep in his bed, she hadn't for years, out of fear that people might  _ talk,  _ might suspect something- a fear Albert didn’t understand. After all, who possessed the right to pass judgment upon them? Who did they know who was not lesser than them, beneath them? It’s only then, when she’s no longer  _ Alexandra _ but  _ Dr. Alex Wesker _ , that Albert remembers she’s a seperate object rather than an extension of himself- a knife instead of an arm.

As always, he waits for her until she is ready to return to him, to be cleansed of her cruelty, sins she has committed in laboratories, in test chambers. He imagines her running experiments, watching her subjects. He wonders if she’ll torture them longer, more wickedly, just to hear how the words sound in a dark room when she is breathless and wanting. 

He hopes that she will.


	2. Gloves

He hardly ever touches her with his hands. 

Not directly, at least. Alex can’t remember the last time he wasn’t wearing those  _ ridiculous  _ gloves, the last time he felt her bare flesh instead of avoiding it.

Like she isn’t  _ worthy _ . Like she is one of  _ them  _ and not a Wesker in her own right. Like she could somehow  _ contaminate _ his perfection, and the feeling of hot leather on skin never fails to bring forth those pangs of inferiority, the ones that burn her under a magnifying glass while he stares, and she, impossibly small, turns to ash in his shadow.

It feels  _ clinical _ , distant. Two gloved fingers and then three- slow, as if he’s examining her, conquering and invading and touching her for  _ himself  _ rather than to give her pleasure. His other hand closes hard around her throat and he looks down at her, wanting to see her struggle, to fight against him. It’s fear he’s waiting for, terror behind her eyes. 

He  _ needs _ it, she  _ knows _ . 

But they have played this game for so many years and Alex has acted her part  _ so  _ many times. She knows him too well to be afraid anymore, and she can’t make the suffering feel  _ new _ , and she can tell Albert is disinterested, apathetic- unswayed by her performance. She’s alone, center stage in a blinding spotlight, she’s under the magnifying glass again and it  _ hurts _ , it  _ burns _ , but she’s so unimaginably cold and it’s the only warmth she remembers.

He only takes them off  _ after _ \- when they’re  _ dirty _ , when he’s finished with her. Albert gathers his things, drives home- touches papers, his coat, the door, the car. She envies her brother for his objectivity, his detachment. She envies everything he touches that is not her. 

She remembers how it felt the first time. It had been before the gloves, before she and Albert had been split apart by deceit and ambition and purpose- before she knew he wouldn’t kill her if she stopped him, if she refused. Alex remembers how he’d  _ laughed  _ at her, how her body had trembled at first with unease and then with something  _ else _ , tender and bruisable as she learned that it was pain that flushes her cheeks, shame that unravels her.

They’ve played many other games since then- opening new and exciting wounds and tearing the bandages off the old ones- but it is this he always comes back to. It is the same image; his fingers, his hand around her throat, his stare. But it is a lost moment- one from all those years ago that she cannot give back to him, can’t recreate at his demand. Unable to regain who she was before it all began, only to lose herself over and  _ over _ again for his pleasure. What Albert wants is something she hasn’t had since he took it from her, and each time is even more of a shadow than the last.

When he leaves, Alex is haunted. Alone in the glistening cold, she finds a lavender bruise and pushes it tenderly- relishing in the dull ache, the memory of cruel hands pressed into bone.


End file.
